Konsk: The Great Takeover of the Place.

26 Reconnecting

Catherine Oldman rested both hands on the chromium gallery rail and watched the INCO enter the spacious Alt-Tech Primary Media Centre, aware that she in turn was watched by a number of cameras, as well as at least one other individual. This was not unusual. Her current employer, the enormously wealthy Standish Manson, felt that the continuous monitoring and recording of his many staffs' activities while on his payroll was both justified and necessary. To be fair, surveillance had become a norm generally, both inside and outside the corporation, a conservative estimate being that there were now well over a score of sensors of various types for every individual in the country.

And a lot more in here, Catherine thought.

Keeping a quiet mind, she observed the arrival, led by a Manson lackey and followed by one of his many security guards. The INCO appeared momentarily baffled by the moving surface of the ramp, then smiled. Like a child?

Intrigued, she directed the camera of her pad towards him and zoomed in, steadying the device against the rail. She would be expected to be interested, to be observant but was careful to conceal her growing excitement, maintaining instead a fixed, authoritative calm.

Take it easy, she told herself. He could be faking. It may well be just another elaborate trap.

The INCO certainly appeared to be unfamiliar with the environment, staring about, eyes darting across the screens as though trying to read their meanings and not always succeeding.

She grimaced at his lumpy musculature; no definition, the masses artificially swollen from too many testosterone injections. Poor devil, she couldn't help thinking.

In the air conditioned interior, many people were working on the ground floor and galleries above, excitedly calling to one another amid an electrical chatter of machines and relays. Some were hunched over apparatus, or observing projected images. Others stood or sat, tapping at pads or clipboards, in front of larger, flat, angled screens which gave views out over the planet.

At the top of the ramp the INCO stumbled at the transition from moving floor to static. Was he taking the piss, she thought in surprise? He stopped and raising his right hand, laid the index finger along the side of his nose and supported the protruding chin with the thumb. It was a clumsy manoeuvre and he didn't hold it for long. Catherine struggled momentarily to control her breathing.

Four more security guards appeared and took up positions behind the INCO but he seemed unaware of them. Now he was staring up at the Critical Event Display. Catherine followed his gaze. The global map was now heavily peppered with coloured circles depicting serious incidents, notably over the Sub-Continental Peninsula, the outlines of which were almost obscured. A large band of red clouded much of the land and extended to the north west and south east, marking the orbital collision and subsequent catastrophic cascade that had taken out most of the satellites covering that area.

She found herself distracted from the INCO The situation on the Sub-Con-Pen was deteriorating rapidly. Following the supposedly accidental damage to the undersea SAT-3 fibre-optic cable that carried 70% of net traffic, there had been repeated attacks directed at the repair vessels and the remaining cables. Who was responsible, whether eco-extremists, like Earth's Fist, Reactionaries, Intransigents, Insurgents or some government's Black Ops group was currently unknown and probably immaterial; sufficient to say that a disaster was unfolding rapidly and the risk of losing contact completely was growing by the minute.

All this was layered on to the significant environmental challenges as a result of global warming. Although the adopted western intensive farming practices had been abandoned, the transition from chemical fertilizers back to organic methods had been poorly taken up and much of the arable land had been turned over to livestock, following the easy money and western markets. Now the impoverished soils, grazed to the bone, cracked with drought, were rapidly disappearing in the regular bouts of flash flooding, or simply blowing away.

What troubled her was why Standish Manson, who had invested so heavily in the Sub-Continent, seemed so unconcerned. Was that simply the consequence of vast personal wealth? He could afford to just write it all off and go on to some other pet project?

Down below, the INCO had turned to another display, nearer to him, showing a desert, as though looking down from a great height. Gleaming shade dirigibles hung in the air, motorised tethers drawing them across the sky, then allowing them to drift back with the wind. Below, their shadows dappled the wide contour plantings of trees and beyond, in a green distance, a forest broken into cool glades and clearings. The contour plantings were inter-spaced with great swathes of solar panels. One of Manson's many green-tech attempts to solve these problems, expensive and often futile but highly lucrative due to the government subsidies.

Then the picture flickered and broke up, redrew itself in various fragments that changed colours rapidly, finally reducing to simple blocks of colour in a static array.

"Damn it, we're losing it, again, Nigel!" A man at a console to Catherine's right called out sharply.

"It's those ruddy birds, crapping on the receivers," came an irritated reply. "We'll have to electrify the outer shell to keep them off."

“I think its the high static charge over the desert,” a woman this time.

"No, its this end, the software- the redraw object keeps crashing." Someone else wanting to claim the problem.

Catherine turned and allowed herself to laugh at the arrogance of it all. A system dependent on several million lines of code, hundreds, no, probably thousands of interconnections and they expect to be able to keep adding more shit to it and it'll just work and then add more shit to get round the problems the first shit throws up. It was a bitter laugh.

Standish Manson had been watching her. He came over, smoothed his already smooth hair, smiling a smooth smile. It looks pasted on, she thought, the smile and the hair. His usual inner clique tagged behind.

“I know you have your reservations,” he said, crooned almost.

He came to the rail at her side as she ignored him and turned again to watch the INCO.

“Well,” he asked, “What do you think of his return? A little unexpected? Those old country folk usually send them back dead.”

Catherine shrugged.

“What would you expect? They find a neuro-cortically optimised hunter-killer running amok in their land...” She let the sentence tail off, suggesting perfectly a complete lack of concern.

Standish Manson laughed.

“Not really a hunter-killer,” he was dismissive. “Shall we take a closer look?”

It was not a question. She followed her employer towards the lifts.

Out of the background of sound within the centre, notes mixed together and a rhythm appeared. A crew of men and women in helmets and overalls (this team in a pale orange with yellow piping) were busy towards the middle of the building, talking into microphones affixed to their hard hats by stalks. Some gestured upwards and a large cube made up of wide screens descended from the ceiling to float some two metres from the floor. Others began to set up banks of flat panel speakers below each side and knots of people gathered as the screens blinked into life.

Catherine Oldman, Standish Manson and his lackeys entered the lift to the lower floor. The recorded swish almost matched the closing of the door.

When they exited the lift, the screens depicted the exterior of the Global Stadium for the First World Enhanced Human Games, filmed from some high vantage, a balloon or drone. Under a glaring sun, bleached white concrete thrust upward, dwarfing the minute dots on the many entrances and ramps. The roads leading to the gigantic structure were now filling with people, arriving from all directions, mostly on foot though some rode bicycles and animals or clung in groups on motorcycles and occasional battered cars.

This is unexpected, thought Catherine. The sprawl of a camp had sprung up rapidly, surrounding the flat white walls with a haze of rusting corrugated iron, tents and flapping plastic sheeting. It had the look of the makings of a crisis, the sudden appearance of refugees seeking shelter or support, seeing the stadium as a symbol of hope and prosperity. There's a bitter irony in that, she thought. She was aware that Manson took no notice of this development.

The perspective changed as the camera carried out a series of elaborate flybys, zooming in on the detail of the crowd then rushing dizzily away to a considerable distance once more. There seemed to be a great mix of peoples and cultures, blurred into one by the wreaths of smoke from many cooking fires. Food was being distributed by dark uniformed men carrying carbines or electric prods.

The viewpoint panned over to the interior of the stadium where the fronts of the balconies surrounding the tracks were splashed with colour, bright screens advertising tobacco, cannabis, alcohol, sugar and soft drinks from familiar corporations. At one end of the arena, a massive gaily coloured globe was opened up to form a stage where a band played between huge banks of speakers, the minute forms of the musicians enlarged and repeated on enormous screens distributed throughout the stadium. There were more big moving images of the planet, the clouds worked in intricate volumetric detail. Various bands were shown, flying high above on trails of fire, declaring in rotating, metallic letters, Planetary Healing and Wake the Goddess.

In the dome, a technician initialised the sound system and the music blared out suddenly, clear and loud. Heads turned and some people began to move to the rhythm. The eyes of the singer screaming into the microphone shone coldly. We have the power! were the words, over and over.

“Let's quieten it a little,” Standish Manson drawled, lazily, to no one in particular.

The sound immediately faded and there was a general hush as the workforce tried to look busy and avoid his attention.

The group made their way towards the INCO and his guards. Standish Manson made a small gesture and his own security moved up to the fore. They all stopped a good five metres away. Catherine, a little behind Standish Manson, tilted her head slightly down and turned towards his left ear, as though all her attention was on her master and hence, though she kept her eyes on the INCO, she herself became more or less invisible.

“Welcome back,” called Standish Manson, from his safe distance. “We weren't really expecting you.”

The accompanying smile was perfect but Catherine could see a pulse in Manson's neck. He doesn't know what to do, she thought; this was unusual.

The INCO glanced at Standish Manson for only a moment, then began to look about him again, as if he was unsure who had spoken.

He doesn't recognise his own master, she thought, amazed. What has happened to him? She watched the pulse in Standish Manson's neck speed up. There was a pause, broken finally by Manson as he came to some decision.

“We expect that you will wish to re-establish your connection immediately,” he said. “Laurence will assist you.”

The INCO turned to Laurence who beckoned while still keeping his distance. As the INCO looked around at the other faces he raised his right hand. Immediately the security team sank into taut postures, their own hands dropping to grip the butts of holstered weapons. Even Standish Manson felt the sudden increase in tension, his back stiffening.

The INCO looked around again at their faces; was he even aware of their reactions, Catherine wondered? Then he placed the index finger of his right hand against the side of his nose and supported his chin on his thumb, looking down a little, cradling the right elbow in his left hand, as though lost in thought. The action was more successful this time and Catherine couldn't conceal her intake of breath.

Laurence beckoned again, a little desperately and this time the INCO straightened and stepped towards him. Laurence backed off hurriedly, once more adopting his awkward gait, moving forwards while trying to look backwards. Trailed by the security team and observed by the others, Laurence led his charge to a lift door that swished open. The INCO paused only a moment before entering then the door closed behind them.

Several of the security guards looked at each other and sighed with relief, exchanging nods and grins. Standish Manson seemed glad that the episode was over, for now. He rubbed his hands and turned towards the central screens.

The woman going by the name of Catherine Oldman took a deep breath and followed her current employer, successfully masking the flutter of excitement that rose in her. For she was now almost certain that she had indeed recognised the presence of her long dead father.

Thanks for reading. Welcome to new subscribers! Good to have you on board. Please feel free to share anything and, as always, comments, suggestions, criticisms much appreciated and very useful. Till the next time, hwyl! Chris